


Learn to Crawl

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-02
Updated: 2008-07-01
Packaged: 2018-09-06 07:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8740639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Dean is four years old when he loses his six month old baby brother, Sammy. There lives are altered irrevokably as they grow up apart and in seperate worlds.





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** This story was inspired by tigriswolf for her request for some Whore!Sammy fic and by cloex_brosluvr who wanted a prequel leading up to Walking in the Shadows! This story deals a lot with child abuse. This isn't for the faint of heart. Please bear that in mind. Oh and my beta hit me several times as she read through this. ON that note, here's the story! It's broken down into two parts due to length.

“Learn to Crawl”

By C.K. Blake

 

Prequel to “Walking in the Shadows”, requested and inspired by cloex_brosluvr. 

 

Glowing yellow eyes watch as the small boy comes running out of the house. A smirk curves the mouth of his host’s body, as he sees the squalling bundle of blankets in the child’s arms. He’s a shadow as he glides across the lawn, snatches the bundle from the boy and slips away into the night.

 

Moments later the boy is jerked up into the arms of his father and carried away as the window of the nursery explodes and sirens sound in the distance.

 

The boy is shaken by his father, and he looks up with tear filled eyes as his father’s deep, panic strained voice asks, “Dean, where’s Sammy? Where’s your brother? You were supposed to protect him, Dean! Where is he?”

 

The child whimpers, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he answers, “Taken, Daddy. Someone stole, Sammy. It was a shadow and his eyes were yellow. He took Sammy… Where’s Mommy? Daddy, why isn’t Mommy here?”

 

The man gathers up his small son into his big arms, his body trembling as tears streak down his soot and ash covered face. He’s lost his home, his wife, and his youngest son. This is the last time he will cry for their loss. John Winchester has learned a harsh lesson tonight. 

 

“Son, you hold on while you have it, while it’s real and you can touch it,” he murmurs against his young son’s neck, his stubble scratching along the child’s cheek, and Dean simply nods, not fully understanding, but learning the hard way about loss.

 

“Daddy, they’re gone, ain’t they? Mommy and Sammy… They ain’t comin’ back?” Dean asks, and the last of John’s heart breaks.

 

He pulls back, blinks away the tears and looks into Dean’s eyes before he shakes his head. “They’re not coming back. You’re all I got left, and I’m holdin’ on to you and I’m never letting go. You hear that Dean?”

 

Dean nods solemnly, and looks to the ground. Even at this age he knows he’s failed. He lost Sammy, and that is unforgivable, but he’s all that’s left, and he’ll never stop trying to make that good enough. He hugs his father back and whispers, “I’m scared, Daddy.”

 

John nods. “I know son, and there’s plenty to be afraid of, but we’ll face it down together.”

 

Again Dean nods, because his Dad is the grown up. He has all the answers and Dean has failed him, but it won’t ever happen again. Dean will never fail him again.

 

\----------

 

Abigail Montgomery opens her front door to get the paper, and is stunned at the sight of a squirming bundle of blankets on her porch. She reaches down, pulls the blanket back and gasps as a baby lifts a fist and howls his rage. She scoops the baby up into her arms and takes him inside. 

 

At the sound of the noise her husband, Jonas, steps out the kitchen and his eyes widen at the sight of the child. He swallows thickly and then lifts his gaze to his wife. 

 

“Abby, where did he come from?”

 

She looks up with a start. “How do you know it’s a boy, Jon?” she asks.

 

He swallows. “When I walked through the field of yarrow and met the creature at the end of the old road, I asked it for a son. He told me that I would have one come morning, and the only condition was that his name be Samuel Winchester.”

 

“So he’s ours? We have a baby? But what will the neighbors say?” she whispers, her eyes darting worriedly to the windows.

 

“Does it matter? If the thing gave us a son after we lost ours, then it’s safe to assume that everything has been taken care of.”

 

She nods and looks down at the baby in her arms, shushing him and her eyes widen at the dirt and ash on the blanket and the baby. “Little Sammy needs a bath,” she whispers and then she walks upstairs to their son’s nursery.

 

She takes in a deep breath as she pushes open the door, looks around the room and sees the empty crib, the toys littering the floor, the changing table, diapers and clothes. A whole month and everything is just like before Mikey died. She is brought out of her reverie as Sam’s cries grow louder and she steps into the room. It’s Sammy’s nursery now.

 

\----------

 

Five years have passed and Dean has learned that the dark is full of nasty things that like to prey on the weak and defenseless. A demon killed his mother and stole his brother. Dean knows that he should trust his father when John tells him that Sammy is probably dead like his mother, but Dean can’t bring himself to believe that.

 

Dean might have failed, but he won’t believe that his brother is dead because of it. 

 

Dean finds himself thinking a lot about Sammy, what he might look like now. He’s sure Sammy is probably more like Dad; he’ll be tall, with dark hair, and Dad’s eyes. Yeah, that’s Sammy, because Dean looks more like their mother, so Sammy has to be more like their dad. 

 

He hears the door of the motel rattle. He stiffens in the bed, and then he leans over and grabs the nine-millimeter loaded with silver rounds from the nightstand.

 

He keeps his eyes trained on the door, because Dad has a key. He wouldn’t have to rattle the door. The door jiggles again, and then something heavy and fleshy hits the door, and the door groans under the weight. 

 

Dean swallows thickly, takes the safety off the gun, and holds it in both his hands. It’s aimed straight for the door. He takes in a deep breath and waits.

 

He jolts a little when the thing hits the door again, and the door starts to give way and splinter. He’s scared, and he’s not afraid to admit it. He knows about the hidden things in the night and it’s common sense to be afraid, but the fear strengths him, makes his blood run cold as his resolve hardens. This is what it comes down to.

 

Killing the monsters so they can hurt other people, so they can’t kill moms and steal little brothers.

 

The thing hits the door again, the wood gives all the way and it’s a snarling, snapping, bundle of coarse fur tumbling through the door. It gets to its feet and as soon as Dean sees its blood red eyes he fires. The silver round buries itself dead between the thing’s eyes. 

 

The grotesque head jerks back, and the thing twitches and blood and stinking animal fill the room, nearly choking him. 

 

He is nine years old, in a motel in Little Rock, Arkansas, and Dean has killed his first monster, some kind of possessed dog. He sits on the bed, trembling, gun still held in both his hands aimed at the door, when his father comes running into the room. 

 

John ducks just in time as Dean fires another shot. He holds his hand up and says, “Easy Dean, it’s just me.”

 

Dean nods and lowers the gun. He lifts his eyes up to his father, and smiles a little. 

 

“It’s dead, right? It’s dead, so I did good?” Dean asks, seeking his father’s approval.

 

John looks at the thing lying still, bleeding out, and stinking to high heaven. He kicks at it with his boot before he nods and puts a firm hand on his son’s shoulder, giving it an affectionate squeeze. “Yeah son, it’s dead. That’s good enough for tonight. Now let’s get out of here before someone gets nosy and comes to investigate those gunshots.”

 

Dean nods and snatches his duffel bag from the floor. He’s learned long ago not to unpack.

 

\----------

 

Abby Montgomery leans against the doorframe, her left arm crossed over her stomach, her hand resting against her hip, while her right hand plays with the diamond pendant dangling from her neck. She takes in a deep breath and sighs as she watches Sammy lying on the floor with his crayons and drawing.

 

She crosses the room and kneels down in front of him and smiles as she picks up a picture, and then her eyes widen in shock. There is a picture of a stick figure holding what looks to be a gun, and there’s a blob of brown and black and red in front of it. She looks up at her son, and asks, “Sammy, what is this? Tell Mommy where you saw this.”

 

Sam looks up at her with an alien intelligence in his eyes, like he can see right through her, and then a smile breaks across his face and he says, “That’s Dean. The doggy was bad, so Dean had to shoot it. It was going to hurt Dean, Mommy. Dean isn’t allowed to get hurt. The John man says so.”

 

She reaches out, her fingertips brushing along Sam’s soft cheek and asks, “Honey, where is Dean now? Is he coloring too?”

 

Sam shakes his head and giggles. “No Mommy. Dean is in Ark…Ark…Arkansas. Where is that, Mommy? What’s a li…little rock doing there?”

 

Abby’s eyes widen as she just looks at her son, and then she pulls him against her, holding him tight as she strokes his hair and kisses his forehead.

 

Something is wrong. Her little boy has an imaginary friend who’s in different town or state each week, and the pictures he draws… She’s talked to Jonas about sending Sam to a child psychiatrist, to get tested. This can’t be normal. Maybe the creature did something to her baby before giving him to them. Tears slip down her face, and then the five-year-old is squirming and wiggling.

 

She lets him go. He steps back and his big hazel-green eyes widen and he reaches out, brushing away a tear from her cheek he asks, “Mommy? Why you crying?”

 

She brushes away the rest of her tears and smiles in spite of her worry. “It’s just because I love you so much.”

 

“But that shouldn’t make you sad,” he says softly, and again there is some wisdom beyond his five-years in those old eyes. “Dean cries too, sometimes. He says it’s because he misses me. Do you think he cries because he loves me too?”

 

She nods and bites back on the sobs building her throat. “I think he might,” she whispers back, and it’s like they share a secret, a secret that makes the distance between her and her son that much greater.

 

\----------

 

Dean is eleven when his first real hunt lands him in the hospital. He is supposed to stay in the truck, but Dean can be head strong and stubborn when he wants to be. 

 

He hears the gunshots, his father shouting, and thinking he could help, he grabs a shotgun full of rock salt and slips out of the truck. That is when the wraith breaks through the trees and brush. 

 

The thing shrieks, its hands are long claws, and it is on Dean within moments. Dean struggles with it, puts up a good fight. He blasts it with the rock salt, but it only reforms and attacks with more vigor.

 

By the time John breaks through the trees and douses the thing in holy water Dean is unconscious, bleeding, and in desperate need of medical attention, because John’s patching up skills are not enough. Not this time.

 

John gathers his son to him, puts him down gently in the truck. He races to the driver’s side, gets behind the wheel and then the tires kick up gravel behind him and he heads back toward town. His tires scream as he pulls into the emergency entrance of the small town hospital. He runs around the side, gathers the limp body of his son into his arms and races into the emergency room. 

 

He demands help, a shocked nurse races over with a gurney, and John lays his son down on it. He watches as they wheel Dean down the hall to take care of him, to save him, because John is helpless at this point. Dean barely has a pulse and his chest isn’t rising with his breath like it should.

 

He falls back bonelessly into a stiff, plastic hospital chair, cradling his head in his bloody hands. He’s breathing heavily, and he jerks when he feels the slender hand on his shoulder. He looks up, his right thumb and forefinger unconsciously twisting the gold band on his left ring finger as he awaits the news.

 

A middle-aged man with a thick head of salt and pepper hair, a slender build, and wire-framed glasses, looks down at him, and clears his throat. “You son lost a lot of blood, Mr. Winchester. We’ve managed to stop the bleeding and he’s undergone a transfusion. There was some internal bleeding, but we’re confident that it’s taken care of. Right now he’s stable. We’d like to keep him here for a few days for observation and to let him build up his strength. However, we do have some questions for you. It looks like some sort of animal may have attacked…?”

 

John nods. “Yes, we were out in the woods, near the lake, camping, a little fishing trip. We heard something that sounded like a scream. I told him to stay in the tent while I went to go check it out. I heard him start to scream and I ran back to the camp, and there was a mountain lion or a cougar… I don’t know what you call it, but I managed to shoot it, but by then he was unconscious. I got him to the truck and got here as fast as I could. Now, can I see him?”

 

The doctor nods and tells John where he can find Dean.

 

John hesitates, his hand hovering over the doorknob. This was a very close call. How many of these close calls can he take? Dean is all he has left. He closes his eyes and his nose fills with acrid smoke, he feels the heat of hellfire against his face, and the roar of crackling flames in his ears. When he opens his eyes he turns the knob, and knows this is his life’s purpose.

 

He pulls a chair next to his son’s bed, and his heart aches over how pale Dean is. He takes Dean’s hand, rubs the top of it, and says, “Son, you have to learn to take orders. I can’t take seeing you like this after every hunt. Get better and promise me you’ll be more careful. Swear it.”

 

John can’t be sure, but Dean’s chest rises a little higher and he could almost swear that he’s hears, “Promise,” as that breath escapes Dean’s parted lips.

 

\----------

 

At the sound of a scream Abby and Jonas Montgomery race out of their beds and down the hall to their seven-year-old son’s room. The night terrors are getting worse. Abby brings her hand to her mouth to hold back the sobs as her eyes fill with tears and Jonas grabs Sam’s arms and holds him down to keep him from hurting himself. 

 

Sam is writhing; his back arched like he’s being attacked by some wild animal, and then his body suddenly goes limp. Jonas is about to let go when Sam’s skin grows warm, feverish, sweat beading on his skin and then he’s coughing and choking before he’s struggling to sit up and his eyes fly open and he stares up at Jonas screaming.

 

Sam slumps back to the bed after a moment, his body temperature lowering just as quickly as it rose and he looks around the room wide-eyed, his eyes settling first on Abby and then on Jonas before he says, “Dean is hurt. It was a ghost, I think. It cut him up. The John man barely got him to the hospital in time. The doctor says he’s okay. He’ll get better, and then there was fire, there was fire. Momma, Daddy? What’s wrong with me?”

 

“Why do I see these things? Why do I see you on the ceiling where you shouldn’t be and there’s fire? There’s fire everywhere?” Sam asks, his young voice cracking as he pulls his knees up to his chest, wraps his arms around his legs, and buries his face in his knees, his small body trembling.

 

Abby slumps down to her knees, her hands no longer able to muffle her sobs as she clutches at her stomach and mourns for the loss of her first son, Michael, and for the innocence that Sam has never had. She looks up finally when her sobs die down, and she aches to see the knowledge of pain in her Sammy’s eyes as she looks to her husband and says, “Tell him, Jonas. Tell him how he became ours.”

 

“Abby,” Jonas says, warning in his voice. “He’s seven years old.”

 

She shakes her head and looks up at her husband, their gazes lock. “He’s more than that and you know it! You made a deal with the devil to get our son back. Samuel is not Michael! He’s not ours! As much as I want him to be. He’s not ours.”

 

Sam swallows thickly and looks from his mother to his father, and takes in a deep breath. “I’m not his either. The man with the yellow eyes. He tells me that I’m his, but I’m not. I belong with Dean. I’m Dean’s.”

 

Abby shakes her head, gets to her feet, crosses the room, and gathers Sam in her arms. “Oh baby, Dean isn’t real. I’m sorry. I never should have said that. You’re our son, but you weren’t always ours. We found you. Someone left you at our front door, and we lost our first baby.”

 

“My brother? Michael?” Sam asks, his voice soft, because usually he’s not allowed to say that name.

 

Abby nods. “Yes. We love you, very much, but you need to know the truth. I know you’re young, but I think you’re old enough to know. I will always be your Momma, but baby, you’re not our blood. Maybe that’s why you see things. We can take you to a doctor. A doctor who can tell you what your dreams mean.”

 

“Would it stop you from crying?” Sam asks, and as Abby’s eyes meet Sam’s steady gaze she isn’t talking to a seven year old, she’s talking to a child that knows more about life, death, and loss than he should.

 

“It will, baby,” she replies, and a sad smile pulls at her mouth.

 

“But will it make Dean go away? I don’t want him to go away,” Sam asks, and he’s her little boy again.

 

She runs a hand through his hair and kisses his forehead, and she leans back against Jonas as he pulls her against him and rubs his hand soothingly along Sam’s back.

 

“I don’t know, Sammy,” she replies.

 

Sam bites his bottom lip; tears slipping silently down his cheeks. “I don’t want Dean to leave me. He’d miss me too much.”

 

\----------

 

Dean’s spent the last two years training. He gets in school when he can; he knows fluent Latin, theology, and anything that pertains to hunting. He also has a knack for numbers and he’s a natural with a knife, can shoot every gun and crossbow in his father’s arsenal, and he knows about following orders.

 

He keeps to himself when he can attend school, but mostly he sticks to reading the books he finds in the homes and hideouts of various hunters. Anything that can provide him with the necessary skills he needs to survive. He also knows basic first aid, and he can do a butterfly stitch just as good as his father.

 

Dean’s quiet around people. He’s not shy; he just doesn’t know how to blend with the people that don’t know what’s out there. He tries, and he’s really good at charming waitresses and scoring a slice of warm apple pie on the house. 

 

All in all he’s a good, well-rounded kid, except that he’s not really a kid.

 

He’s taken by surprise as he’s walking toward the shabby house his father’s renting for the month. He’s got take out from the diner when he lays eyes on a girl. She’s older than him. He’s sure out of that. 

 

He lets his eyes trace over her figure, perky young breasts, a sweet smile, warm brown eyes, and silky looking, light brown hair pulled back into a pony tail. She’s very pretty, and he feels something warm in his gut, and suddenly his worn blue jeans are too tight around his crotch. 

 

His cheeks flush bright red and he hurries past the girl, races down the street until he runs right in the house, the screen door banging behind him. He puts the take out on the old kitchen table, runs past his father, slams his bedroom door behind him, and pushes in the lock. 

 

It’s happening again, the heat in his belly and then he hurts. He falls back onto his bed, undoes his fly, pushes his jeans and boxers down to his ankles, wraps his hand around himself and his breath hitches as he begins to move his hand up and down. 

 

He closes his eyes, his breathing grows heavy until he’s panting, and then he feels it, this pull at his spine, and then his cock is jerking in his grip and milky fluid spills across his hand. He lets out a sigh and waits as his breathing goes back to normal. He takes the pillowcase off his pillow and uses it to clean himself up. He pulls his jeans and boxers back up.

 

He heads to the bathroom, drops the pillowcase in the laundry basket in the bathroom, washes his hands, and then heads into the kitchen to eat. His dad is sitting at the table working on his hamburger and sipping at a Coke.

 

Dean pulls a Coke from the fridge, pops the top on the can, sits at the kitchen and then starts in on his own hamburger and fries. 

 

He feels his dad’s eyes on him, and heat rises to his face.

 

He looks up with a start at the sound of his dad chuckling, and John grins at him conspiratorially and says, “It’s perfectly natural to take care of business, son. Just be careful who you take care of it with.”

 

Dean’s eyes widen and he wishes he could sink beneath the table. He’s already suffered THAT talk with his father once. He doesn’t want to go through it again. 

 

“Just know you can come to me if you have questions, and for God’s sake if you ever find yourself with a girl you think about all we talked about before you do anything, not that I want you with a girl anytime soon. You’re still young, Dean,” John says, and his voice is firm, and Dean wonders if he hopes hard enough if the floor will just swallow him up. 

 

No such luck. He’s still blushing and squirming, sitting across from his father, and choking down a hamburger that he suddenly doesn’t want anymore.

 

\----------

 

It’s been two years since the last time Samuel Winchester Montgomery has spoken. Since the death of his parents, Jonas and Abigail Montgomery, in a fire that only Sam managed to survive, he’s lived in three foster homes and two children’s centers.

 

He excels in academics, however he doesn’t say a word, and no one has been able to break through to him. 

 

He’s gangly, and tall for his age, with a mop of messy brown hair, and the saddest hazel green eyes imaginable. He’s seen far too much in his short life. That much is apparent.

 

It’s while he’s at Mercy General’s Children Center that things finally change. He’s lying in his bed; it’s a little after eight, which means lights out. He’s lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. 

 

He hears the noise of sock clad feet padding along the floor. It doesn’t bother him, just someone headed for the bathroom. He shifts and turns onto his side, and then he freezes as a hand closes over his mouth and he feels the weight of another body sinking into his bed. 

 

Something hard presses against the small of his back, and another hand slips along his side and into his pajamas. He squeezes his eyelids shut, tears seeping from the corners of his eyes, because this isn’t right. He knows this deep down in his gut.

 

The hand starts moving inside his pajamas, touching him, and that thing is pressing and moving against his back, rubbing, and there are grunts and groans sounding in his ear. He swallows, and then Dean is there.

 

He knows Dean is really in Colorado, but for one moment Dean is there with him, and he can hear Dean’s voice in his head. It sounds funny, like it’s cracking, but the words are solid.

 

“Fight this Sammy. This isn’t right. Fight it.”

 

Sam nods, his eyes fly open, he pulls at the hand covering his mouth just enough so that his teeth can sink into it, and then he shifts, striking out with his arm, and he rolls away from the older boy, rolls onto the floor, and crouches. 

 

It doesn’t take long for the older boy to recover and he glares down at Sam, and Sam knows the boy is at least five or six years older than him.

 

“So the retard doesn’t like to play,” the boy taunts.

 

Sam’s eyes narrow, and he can hear Dean’s voice by his ear, telling him to shift his weight a little to his right, and then the boy lunges at Sam, and Sam someone manages to flip the boy. The boy lands roughly on his back, the air whooshing out of him, and then Sam stares down at him, Sam’s pupils so wide, the irises are barely visible and the boy grabs desperately at his throat, writhing like someone is holding him down and choking him, but no one is there.

 

Sam bends, takes a breath, cocks his head and in a scratchy voice says, “Dean told me to tell you, if you ever fuck with me again, he’ll kill you.”

 

The lights suddenly flick on, and whatever force is holding the boy is gone, and his hands fall limply against his throat. 

 

Sam looks up to see Mr. Toffer, the facility director, standing there looking from Sam to the older boy.

 

“Mr. Gennings, mind telling me what’s going on in here?” Mr. Toffer asks.

 

Gennings can’t speak above a hoarse whisper and he keeps staring wide-eyed at Sam. Sam looks up at Mr. Toffer, and he hears Dean’s voice by his ear, and he opens his mouth, his voice somewhat hoarse from disuse, “Matt got into my bed and started touching me. I tried to get away, but he was holding me down. I think I kicked him and got up, but then he tried to knock me to the floor and get on top of me. I think he hit his head on the floor when I wiggled away.”

 

Mr. Toffer’s mouth falls open over the fact that Sam is speaking and then he turns sharp eyes on Matthew Gennings, because what Sam is saying finally registers. He grabs the older boy up by the arm and walks him out of the room. At the door he gives Sam a reassuring smile and says, “I’ll take care of this. You go on back to sleep, Mr. Montgomery.”

 

Sam nods and then slips back into his bed. He curls up on his side and whispers, “Thanks, Dean.”


	2. TWO

It’s in a small no name town about twenty or so miles away from the outskirts of Dallas, Texas, where John has decided to settle long enough for Dean to finish his third year of high school. He’s the youngest in his class, but he’s smart, even if he only does the minimum amount of work required. 

 

There is an edge to Dean, sixteen years old and he has a leather jacket he picked up in a thrift store, and a cool set to his eyes. The captain of the football team, a real bully on and off the field, tried to hassle Dean the first day Dean showed up at school, and no one has tried to hassle Dean since.

 

Boys watch him warily, knowing the danger of picking a fight with the kid who keeps to himself. Girls blush and quietly giggle as he walks by. He’s a pretty boy with his dirty blonde hair, full lips, and cool green eyes. Of course he can back up his edge with a mean right hook and moves that most of the students have only seen in action movies. 

 

He mostly ignores the attention he gets from girls until a pretty girl from the poorer side of town looks up at him one day and smiles. She’s a year older than him, and he’s seen her working at the diner that he and his father frequent in the center of town. She lives a couple of streets over from the run down place that his father is renting at a really good discount for having rid the landlord’s house of a poltergeist.

 

Her name is Annie and she’s pretty with her soft, golden blonde hair, blue doe eyes, and that sweet, quiet smile. He’s seen her at the diner a lot, but his father is always around at the diner, and he doesn’t want to relive that talk he and his father have every time Dean is caught checking out a girl. 

 

Finally he notices her at school, during his third week. He’s in the library doing research for a paper, when he looks up and sees her sitting down at a table across from his. She looks up, meets his gaze, smiles and then returns to her own work. Dean takes in a deep breath, gets up and moves to her table, next to her.

 

“Hi,” he says.

 

She looks up, and replies, “Hello, yourself. Missed you at the diner over the weekend. Find a new place to eat or can you actually cook?”

 

He runs his tongue over his lips and then absently brushes at the scratches on his face. Her eyes widen, and she chews her bottom lip thoughtfully, as he answers, “Naw. I was outta town with my dad. Had some family business to take care of.”

 

She nods. “Oh.”

 

“Hey, are you working after school today?” 

 

She lets out a small huff to blow a loose strand of hair back from her face. “No, actually. Finally got a day off. Why? You gonna miss me?”

 

“I was kinda thinking I might walk you home or somethin’,” Dean says, and color rises to his cheeks.

 

She looks up slowly, her cheeks a rosy hue as she says, “That sounds nice. I’ll meet you out front, Dean.”

 

He looks up at her in surprise. “How do you know my name?”

 

She giggles. “You’re the new kid, people talk. And that’s what your dad calls you.”

 

Dean chuckles a little in embarrassment and then says, “Okay Annabeth.”

 

She rolls her eyes. “My name tag, huh, Romeo? You can call me Annie.”

 

He watches her as she gathers up her books, heads to the front desk of the library, checks them out, and walks out of the library, throwing a smile at him over her shoulder. There is an answering flutter in his chest.

 

Three weeks later finds Dean sitting next to Annie on the couch in front of a modest television in her living room. Her mom is at the diner working a double shift, and they are all alone.

 

Dean reaches over and takes her hand in his, rubbing circles over the top of her hand with his thumb. She sighs and leans closer to him, and loses focus in the scary movie they are supposed to be watching. She rests her head on his shoulder, and he shifts his head a little, running his nose through her hair, catching the scent of some flowery shampoo that suits her. 

 

She leans up and then their lips meet. It’s soft and chaste like the few tentative kisses they’ve already shared, but then she opens her mouth against Dean’s. He opens his in reciprocation, and their tongues meet. She moans and whimpers a little, and he deepens the kiss, his tongue slipping past her lips, tasting licorice and chocolate and something that is almost like apples, but he knows it’s just how she tastes.

 

His hands are on her slender waist, and start to edge up, until his thumbs brush the undersides of her breasts. She moans a little more and arches up into the touch, her own hands slipping up the back of his shirt, running over the smooth skin and tight muscles of his back. 

 

Dean can’t get enough of her taste, and trails his lips down her chin and neck, finding a tender spot where her throat meets collarbone and she whimpers, her head falling back, and somehow she’s made it into his lap and he’s hard, and he wants more. He wants her.

 

His hands are beneath her top, cupping her breasts through her bra, squeezing gently. She pulls back, and shifts up, before she bends down, her lips brushing his again, before she shifts and her lips are caressing his ear as she whispers, “My bedroom is down the hall.”

 

It doesn’t matter that this is his first time. He knows what his body needs, and it’s natural to take care of business, and he’s taken to keeping a condom in his wallet, just in case the need ever arises. Looking into Annie’s eyes, the need damn sure comes up and then some.

 

She gets up from his lap, takes his hand, and leads him down the hall to her bedroom. She closes the door behind them, and he slips out of his shirt, while she pulls off her top. His mouth goes dry as he sees her fair skin so exposed, her breasts hidden by the simple white bra. 

 

He moves forward, his arms going around her again as he kisses at her neck, trails those lips of his along her collarbone, and begins to slip the left strap of the bra down. He reaches behind her, his fingers fumbling with the clasps on the bra, until after a couple of curses he finally gets the damn thing undone, and then he’s pulling back, and slipping the bra down her arms. 

 

She covers her breasts automatically with her arms, a blush covering her cheeks, as she takes a few faltering steps back, the backs of her knees coming up against her bed. He follows her, guides her back on the bed. She scoots up and he crawls on the bed after her, his lips trailing down her collarbone, suckling her left breast into his mouth, his eyes never leaving her face as she arches gracefully up against him, and cries out. He treats her other breast with the same care before he kisses further down her body, his nose nudging against her belly, and then his hands are working her jeans open.

 

She shifts her hips up and he slips her jeans and panties down her legs and works his way back up, exploring with interest, and the little sounds she makes goes straight to his groin. He kisses his way back up to her mouth, his hand stroking her, a finger slipping inside and making her arch up and gasp, her nails raking up his back, and he likes that.

 

He pulls his wallet out of his jeans with his free hand, flips it open, lays it on the bed, and digs through it one handed till he finds the condom. He pulls it out, shoves the wallet off of the bed, and then he pulls his other hand away from her, finding it wet with her juices. 

 

She makes a mewling noise of disappointment as her eyes slip open, lust blown and almost looking through him. He gets up, undoes his fly, pushes his jeans and boxers down his legs, his cock slapping his stomach, eager and ready to go. Her eyes widen as she looks at him, watches him slip on the condom and then he’s back on the bed, hovering over her. 

 

He bends down, his lips brushing her ear and making her shiver as he asks, “Are you sure?”

 

He pulls back and she’s worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, but then she nods, and slowly he enters her, the basic idea of what to do on his mind, but this is still so new. He stops, almost panics as she arches up and cries out in pain. He bends down and kisses her. When she kisses him back he slips further inside of her, her tight, slick, heat embracing him.

 

It takes him a few thrusts to find a rhythm that fits, but then he’s moving inside of her and her arms are around him again, fingers clawing at his back as she rises up and their mouths meet fiercely. 

 

He can feel it building at the base of his spine, and when she slips a hand down between them, touching herself while he continues to thrust inside of her, he comes undone, throws his head back and roars his release. He’s still thrusting inside her, riding out his orgasm, when she comes with a cry and they both collapse on her bed. He rolls over and pulls her small, soft body against his. She rests her head against his chest, absently pressing her lips against his skin every now and then, and he curls his arm around her, his hand gently massaging her hip as he presses a kiss to her forehead, and he thinks, ‘Amazing.’

 

\----------

 

Samuel Winchester Montgomery is now thirteen years old. He is what child services, a child psychiatrist, and Judith and Alden Archer term a mal-adjusted child growing into teen hood. Still the Archers, after fostering Sam for two years, are proceeding with the paperwork to adopt him. 

 

Sam is quiet, often moody, and has a few secrets. He still sees Dean in his dreams, he still dreams about things that happen before they happen, and Alden Archer has been touching him since he was eleven years old. 

 

Sam has tried to remember what he did to Matthew Gennings that one time, but no matter how he feels, how hard he tries, Alden is older, bigger, and he is respectable. No one would believe a troubled kid with Alden Archer as his foster father. Alden Archer is a member of the country club; the Archers are well to do. Alden is a chairman for several local charities in the area, and he’s a surgeon.

 

Sam is considered one of the Archers’ best attempts at saving the world with their big hearts. 

 

Sam hates the large house, his bedroom filled with equipment for baseball, and soccer, and football. He hates going out for sports even though he’s good at it. He feels dirty and wrong when he breaks down and goes for a shower in the locker room at school after practice.

 

They must see what he is, what he’s done and what’s been done to him.

 

He gets home to find that he’s alone. There is a casserole in the refrigerator for him to heat up when he’s hungry. Judith is over visiting her parents, and Alden isn’t home yet.

 

He fixes himself a ham and cheese sandwich and a glass of milk. When he’s finished eating he goes upstairs to do his homework. It isn’t long before he’s finished that and settles down in his bed with a book to read, The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. 

 

He’s halfway through the book when he hears the front door opening downstairs. He sighs, puts the book aside and looks at the digital clock on his bedside table. Eleven thirty. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Maybe if he’s lucky it’s too early for Alden Archer to be drunk.

 

Unfortunately Sam is never lucky.

 

He hears unsteady footsteps coming up the curved stairway, then a thump as something hits the wall followed by a curse. He shakes his head, and closes his eyes, prays that maybe Judith will come home. Of course she’s staying with her parents for the night. Her father is sick and it’s too late for her to come home.

 

Sam’s eyes fly open as his door is thrown open. He swallows and resigns himself to what is to come. It might be a little early, but Alden has been hitting the bar, and the scotch, pretty hard from what Sam can tell. 

 

He wonders what it will be tonight. If Alden will make him jack him off while he touches Sam, or if he’ll have to suck the man off. Sam really hopes it’s not one of those nights. He doesn’t feel like swallowing and he knows better than to spit. He spit once and got a hard smack to the back of his head for his troubles. A good little whore knows their place and swallows. That is a lesson that Alden has taught him well in the last two years.

 

Sam sits up in the bed, a worried flutter in his stomach at the hungry look in Alden’s glazed, cold grey eyes. This isn’t good. 

 

Alden staggers into the room and looks down at Sam, he reaches out, his fevered hands stroking Sam’s jaw, and then he’s bending down, his lips colliding with Sam’s and Sam winces as he tastes the scotch on Alden’s breath. 

 

Alden pulls back and he’s almost tender as he strokes Sam’s neck and trails his large hand down Sam’s chest. His hand doesn’t stop until he reaches Sam’s crotch and then his lips are brushing Sam’s ear as he slurs, “Such a pretty boy, with that pretty little mouth and those sad eyes. Want you hard for me, Sam. Want you hard for me and I want to come while I fuck your pretty little ass.”

 

Sam stiffens and he squeezes his eyes shut as Alden’s free hand grips the back of his head, grabs his hair and wrenches his head back. “Such a pretty young whore. Have to teach you how to please a man. It’s all you’ll ever be good for.”

 

Tears seep from the corners of his eyes and Alden forces him down and soon his clothes are thrown about the room, and he cries out at the unwanted intrusion of Alden buried inside of him. Spit and blood from Sam’s torn body the only lubricant used. Sam bites down on his lip until it’s split and bleeding. He won’t give this bastard the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. 

 

Sam is face down in the pillow as Alden rides him, and then Alden reaches around Sam, grabs his cock, and Sam is ashamed that he’s hard. Alden begins to roughly jack him off, and bites down hard on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam comes. A few minutes later Alden comes buried deeply in Sam. Sam bites back on the whimper as Alden pulls out of him.

 

Sam curls up on the bed as Alden pulls up his pants and leaves the room. Sam feels the hot, sticky warmth of blood and come slipping down his thighs. He leans over the side of the bed, throws up, and then silently weeps for the innocence he’s never had. 

 

He’s thirteen years old when his virginity is finally stolen from him. The last of his hope for rescue dies, and he’s determined that he will escape, as soon as he can scrape the money together from his allowance and mowing the neighbors’ lawns. He will do whatever he can, but one day he will be free and out in the world on his own terms.

 

\----------

 

She’s a slinky little thing, with a chic bobbed hair cut, black bangs kinda chopped up in a way that compliments her pixie face, and her eyes are lined, her lips pouty and a dark shade of red. He almost picked her up in the bar last night, but Dad had managed to start something and he’d had to leave her and the pool game behind.

 

Now here she is, plain as day in a short, tight little skirt, and a dark top that leaves very little to the imagination. Dean is very interested as he pulls back from beneath the hood of the ’67 Impala that he and his dad have been working on in Bobby Singer’s garage. She’ll be beautiful once he finishes with her engine and gives her a new paint job. She’s already running on her own without a kick-start to get her started.

 

Of course Dean’s thoughts are not on the car of his dreams, but on the slinky little minx sashaying into the garage. She walks over to him, her three-inch heels clicking on the concrete in the garage, and he swallows as he brings the hood of the car down, and leans against it. 

 

She walks right up to him, leans in and kisses him, her lipstick staining his mouth, and his hands wrap around her waist and he’s pulling her down against him. 

 

It isn’t long before he’s got her bent over the hood of his car, her breasts nearly spilling out of her top as he pounds away inside of her roughly, his teeth marking her shoulder and she moves back on him, and throws her head back, filth and demands for harder slipping from her saucy little mouth. 

 

He comes, and jerks out of her quickly at the sound of heavy metal landing on concrete. She makes a disappointed sound and looks up with a glare as Dean pulls off the condom, ties it up, and tucks his spent cock away and meets his father’s stern gaze with a blush.

 

She pulls away, yanks her panties up her legs, lowers her short skirt and stalks past John, and leaves the garage.

 

John shakes his head and says, “It’s not my business, with you being nineteen and all, but honestly, Dean. What the hell are you thinking?”

 

Dean shrugs and tosses the condom into the trash barrel. John shakes his head again, not expecting an explanation as he says, “Fine, now let’s finish up with this girl, get her purring, and a new coat of paint, and then we’ll get the hell out of here before we over stay our welcome.”

 

Dean gives a stiff nod as he lifts the hood of the car once again, and he kind of feels guilty over being caught by his father, especially since he didn’t even know the girl’s name.

 

\----------

 

It takes two years for Sam to save up enough money to leave. He’s managed to get a little over three thousand dollars. He can finally leave, get away and never look back. 

 

It’s Friday night, Judith is visiting her parents again, her father is about to go back on the chemo, but he’s termed as a survivor. Alden is on call, and Sam can’t be more grateful for the opportunity finally afforded him.

 

He slips out of the house, walks around for a while with his large duffel bag, and finally manages to hitch a ride to the bus station. He looks up at the board to see when the next bus is leaving and to find out how far it’s going. The next bus out is headed for Chicago. There’s a problem though. He’s fifteen, there is no way someone will sell him a ticket. 

 

He walks over to a guy with a duffel bag at his feet and headphones in his ear. Sam taps him on the shoulder, offers him a hundred dollars to get him a ticket on the next bus out. The guy looks Sam over before he shrugs, gets up, goes to the window and gets the ticket. 

 

He heads back over to Sam, and Sam pays him back for the ticket and gives him an extra hundred like he promised. Ten minutes later Sam is sitting in the back of a greyhound bus headed toward Chicago. He doesn’t exactly know what’s ahead of him, but who would think to look for him in Chicago?

 

It takes about four days to get there, but once there he roams the streets, learns his way around, finds a few good places to take shelter. He also learns that Chicago is a very cold place. He can hold his own pretty good though. 

 

Someone pulls a knife on him his third day in Chicago. The man’s hand crumples under an unseen force, the knife drops to the ground, and Sam moves on like nothing happened. Life is pretty simple.

 

He tries to find work, but he’s got a baby face, and everywhere he goes they all know he’s underage and they won’t take a chance on him.

 

Sam’s money eventually runs out, and he’s getting hungry. He’s roaming the streets, hood of his shirt pulled around his face, hands buried in his pockets. He’s down to his last five dollars, and he’s desperate. 

 

He’s about to turn the corner into an alley when he hears someone whistle and call out to him. He stiffens in panic. It’s been a little over two months. Alden couldn’t have found him. He turns slowly and lets out a puff of breath in relief when he’s sees it’s just some well to do man, probably in his forties, driving around in a Mercedes Benz. The passenger’s side window is rolled down and the man is still trying to get his attention.

 

Sam shrugs and walks over to the car. He leans into the window, and raises his brow at the man. 

 

“How much, kid?” the man asks, his voice gravelly and his superior tone peppered with wealth.

 

Sam looks confused for a moment and then it hits him. 

 

His stomach rolls and he has to swallow several times to keep from throwing up. His fingers tighten around the five-dollar bill in his pocket and he lets out his breath slowly.

 

“Depends on what you want,” Sam says, and something cold shoots up his spine as he realizes this is it, but this will be on his terms.

 

“How much will it take to get that pretty little mouth wrapped around my dick, kid?” the man asks with a smile that is all sharp teeth, and Sam pegs this guy as a lawyer, just because he has that sleaze factor working for him.

 

“For you,” Sam says, his face a mask of indifference as he shrugs. “I’ll give you a special introductory rate. A hundred bucks and I’ll suck you dry.”

 

“Seventy-five, and I get to watch you jack yourself off,” the man challenges.

 

Sam shakes his head and pulls back a little. “One twenty-five and you get me blowing you and jacking off. There’s no negotiating my rates.”

 

The man nods. “You got balls, kid. You’re just lucky I like that pretty little mouth of yours. Get in.”

 

“I wanna see the money up front,” Sam replies first.

 

The man laughs as he pulls out his wallet and holds the cash out to Sam. Sam reaches for the money, but the man pulls it out of his reach. “You gotta get in first, kid.”

 

Sam opens the car door and slips inside. 

 

Ten minutes later he’s got a hundred and thirty bucks in his pocket, the guy’s dick in his mouth, and his pants around his ankles, his hand on his own dick jerking off. The guy takes forever to come, his fingers tight in Sam’s hair as he guides Sam up and down. The man hits Sam’s gag reflex a couple of times, but Sam manages to recover quickly, and then the man finally comes long and hard. Sam pulls away, swallowing on reflex. 

 

Sam then shifts and sits back in the passenger’s seat of the car and finishes jacking off, coming all over his hands. Sam looks around for something to wipe off with when the man snatches his hands and licks them clean of the come.

 

Sam swallows hard to keep the bile back, as the man looks up at him with sharp, dark eyes, and says huskily, “Nothing like the taste of a sweet young cock to keep you young at heart. Worth every penny, kid.”

 

Sam jerks his pants up and does up his fly. He scrambles out of the car, and when he shuts the door the man peels out of the alley and Sam can hear the echoing of his laughter. The money in his pocket is a heavy weight as he staggers behind a dumpster, his hand pressed against the brick wall of a rundown building as he bends forward, retching in the spilled over trash.

 

At least he’s found a way to survive.

 

His hand trembles the first time he applies the eye liner, and he’s almost convinced that he’ll end up poking his eye out. He drops the pencil, grips the sink in the bathroom of the train station until his knuckles are white, and he glares at himself in the mirror. His eyes are red and puffy from the tears and the aggravation of the eyeliner. He takes a deep breath, reaches for the pencil again, forces his hand steady and draws the lines beneath his eyes. 

 

He rubs up with his fingers to clear away the smudges, and sucks in another deep breath, bottling everything down deep inside. This is it. There is no little boy crying in the corner and throwing up. There is just Sam doing what he has to do to eat. He’s touched cocks before, he’s had a cock in his mouth, if it’s between freezing his ass off on the street and having a steaming cup of coffee and warm food in his belly…he’ll take the cock and the coffee.

 

\----------

 

Dean looks up, wipes his cheek and his hand comes away bloody. He scowls a little and then turns to his dad as he gets to his feet using the shotgun to help. 

 

“So, what the hell was that thing?” Dean asks, shifting a disgusted gaze to the hairy, smelly thing.

 

John just shrugs. “What’s it matter, son? It’s dead now.”

 

Dean nods. “Guess you’re right.”

 

“Course, I am,” John says and then gives his son a glance over, sees the weary look to his eyes, and figures it would do Dean some good to wind down a little.

 

“Yeah, yeah, ol’ man,” Dean replies with some affection as he pats his father’s shoulder.

 

John snorts and rolls his eyes before he says, “Don’t worry about this. Take off. Get a drink or two at the bar. What’s the point of being twenty-one if you don’t live it up? Blow off some steam and then join up with me in Tacoma. Got a call from Chief Black Eagle. They might have a skin walker. I don’t want to see your ass up there till Friday though. I’ll call if I need you before then.”

 

Dean nods in surprise, and then he heads back to the Impala. He puts the sawed off shotgun in the trunk of the car, gets into the driver’s side, and heads to the motel room to get cleaned up, because he can’t go out to a bar in Chicago stinking of whatever the hell that thing was.

 

\----------

 

He’s in a bar; it’s the best place to pick up some quick cash. If he can’t hustle at pool, he can always put his pretty mouth to work. 

 

He looks around and finds a guy who looks drunk enough to get his dick sucked and pay Sam’s usual fee. 

 

A few minutes later he’s in the men’s room, squatting in front of the man, sucking him off. Of course things don’t go as planned. Once the man comes he jerks Sam’s head back and says he’s no fucking queer. 

 

Sam’s eyes flash, and the man let’s go of his head. Sam jerks the man’s pants back up and zips him up. Sam stands to his full height, six foot five, and the man swallows thickly, but manages to stand his ground. He ain’t paying some cock sucking whore for something he could have easily gotten for free from the waitress with the big tits he was flirting with earlier. 

 

Sam shrugs and heads out of the bathroom, the man’s wallet hidden in his large hand until he gets out of the bathroom, empties it of the cash and drops it to the floor. 

 

He’s about to leave the bar when the man comes running out, grabs him by the shoulder and starts hassling him about the wallet. A few minutes later there he is, Dean. Sam hasn’t seen Dean in his dreams for months, so it comes as a small shock at first, and then Dean is taking up for him, and the guy pulls a knife on him, and Sam’s breath catches in his throat and suddenly he sits up, and looks around. 

 

He’s in an old abandoned warehouse; laid out on the lumpy mattress he’d come across a few weeks ago. He sighs and shakes his head to clear it. He gets up, rummages through one of the garbage bags that contain his clothes, and then he slips into a skin tight shirt, and a pair of jeans that look almost like they were painted on.

 

There’s no question about what he is with the way he’s dressed.

 

Sam’s out trying to hustle pool at the bar five blocks from the warehouse where he’s currently staying. Pool isn’t working out. He sees a guy at the bar who’s staring at his ass and looking interested. Looks like easy money. 

 

He approaches the guy, finds himself in the bathroom, sucking cock, and then the guy doesn’t want to pay up. He does what he normally does in situations like this. He pulls up the guy’s pants, swipes his wallet, takes the cash and dumps the wallet outside of the bathroom.

 

The guy doesn’t let up though, and catches Sam by the shoulder as he is leaving the bar. Sam turns around, the guy getting in his face and starting shit. 

 

Sam is about to pull a punch and haul ass when he hears a voice that is familiar even though he’s never actually heard it before in his whole life.

 

“What’s the problem?”

 

Sam turns toward the voice, his eyes widen for a moment as he sees Dean in the flesh for the first time. He quickly schools over his expression with a sullen look to hide the shock and the hope, as Dean cuts in and takes command over the situation. 

 

Sam wants to resent Dean coming in and acting the part of knight in brown leather jacket, but there’s something about Dean that Sam really wants to trust, but trusting isn’t Sam’s thing. Still he watches as the guy pulls a knife on Dean, and Dean says he thinks his might be bigger.

 

Sam spares a glance at Dean’s crotch, and thinks that Dean might just be right.

 

End.


End file.
